


Halcyon Days

by riptheh



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Gen, OR a sequel to fugitive of the judoon if you want to think of it that way, Spoilers for The Timeless Children, Thriller, basically the doctor has to outrun herself, enemies to reluctant allies to omg we’re the same person, im obsessed with the doctor dealing with her past basically, the author attempts to explore what we learned in the timeless children
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23008711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riptheh/pseuds/riptheh
Summary: The Doctor is on the run. A prison escapee, tormented by shattered memories of lives she didn’t even know she had, she's trapped in a game of cat and mouse against the most deadly operative the universe has to offer. One she could outwit, if only she could remember him.The Doctor is the best agent the Division has to offer. Young, arrogant, aggressive, he’ll do do anything to nab a fugitive. So it only makes sense that, when a cold case from the future goes hot, he would be chosen to bring her in. After all, who else could reel in the most dangerous fugitive in the universe, but the most dangerous operative of the Time Lords?Only this isn’t any old cold case gone hot. This is a past and a future tangled into one, and the deeper the fugitive dives into her past, the more the operative’s future unravels. Who will the Doctor become? Who has she been? And how can a past, wiped from memory, become a future removed from itself entirely? What does it mean to reconcile the trauma of a life rewritten?The Doctor isn’t the person she thought she was. Now, if she wants to discover just who that might be, she'll have to outwit her most deadly opponent.Herself.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor & Graham O'Brien, Thirteenth Doctor & Ryan Sinclair, Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan
Comments: 62
Kudos: 145





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Yes, I'm back at it with another longfic. This one is all planned out, and only needs to be written. I'll post chapters as soon as I get them up, which is usually fairly quickly. And as I mentioned in the tags, here be spoilers. Don't delve into this story unless you've seen the Timeless Children (which by the way, I LOVED).

It was raining that night.

That wasn’t unusual for Sheffield, Graham reflected as he locked the door and closed the curtains. It was near February, and freezing to boot, but not quite enough to turn the lashing rain to snow, so it only rattled upon the roof like nails in a tin cup, torrential and endless. Enough to wake the dead, which was precisely why Graham was fiddling with the curtains at half past midnight, rather than tucked away in bed.

He couldn’t stand the rain. Had never been able to, Englishman or no. Ryan had no problem with it; he was currently snoring away upstairs, gone to the world. Graham, however, no matter how he tossed or turned, and especially in his old age, could never quite seem to block it out. Especially when it clattered down like this.

It would invade his dreams as well, he knew. The cold and clamminess would seep into his mind, wrap curling fingers around his subconscious, and return him to far off places, planets and deep space and a ship he hadn’t seen for nearly a year. It was always the same. Graham couldn’t explain why. 

When it rained, when the chill seeped into his bones, he dreamed of his travels with the Doctor.

“Oh, Doc.” With one last pull, Graham shoved the curtains shut, blocking out the worst of the damp, the mist that collected on the windowsill. “We miss you.”

That was true enough, if barely the tip of the iceberg. Sure, they had settled back into their old lives, slowly. Reluctantly. Taught their new friends how to adapt to a twenty first century lifestyle. Learned how to move on, for the most part. 

Well, there never was going to be a moving on from the Doctor, Graham had long since decided. He was lucky; he was older than the other two. He knew how to leave something behind. Knew that there was no choice, sometimes.

Ryan knew that too, to a point. He had lost his mother and his nan, and had missed life back on Earth—Graham had seen that immediately. Sure, Ryan grieved—they all grieved—but he moved on. He knew how, almost as well as Graham.

Only Yaz clung stubbornly to the hope that the Doctor was still alive. She didn’t let go, and she didn’t move on, not even as she returned to her job, melted back into daily life, and moved up in the ranks. She was quiet about it, once she realized that the other two were fading, but it was there, nonetheless. She had a collection of newspaper clippings of strange events, and a source at the station who texted her about anything unusual. Sometimes, when Ryan and Graham invited her for dinner, she refused, claiming family arrangements, even though Ryan and Graham had long since learned that she spent her extra time searching for clues. Going back to the TARDIS and fiddling around, even though none of them understood the controls. Trying to learn. Trying to find her.

It was hopeless, but Graham didn’t have the heart to break it to her. So he kept up a smile, and grieved privately, and learned how to put things away so she wouldn’t be hurt. It was better that way, because it kept them together. A fam still, even if one member was missing.

Missing. Dead. Even in his head, Graham couldn’t quite say the word.

With a sigh, he turned away from the window, fingers trailing over the rough curtain fabric. He had a new chair now, nearly as good as the old one, but everything else was the same. Grace still hid in every corner. The Doctor hid in nothing but the remains of a chair long gotten rid of, and he couldn’t decide which was worse.

“Bloody rain,” he muttered, winced slightly as a particularly loud wave of it clattered across the roof, and reached out, groping through darkness for the entrance to the hallway. “I’ll never get to sleep, not with—“

A _bang!_ cracked through the room, and Graham nearly jumped out of his skin. He tripped, nearly fell, and grabbed the sofa to right himself, cursing, just as another _bang!_ slammed against the front door, and then again, and again, a desperate, arrhythmic pounding.

“Who the hell—alright, ALRIGHT!” Graham lunged for the hallway entrance, grabbed for the light switch and flipped it, pouring warm lamplight into the hallway. The pounding continued, frantic and heavy, as Graham fumbled with the lock.

“I’m coming!” be hollered, and groaned as, just above the constant knocking, he heard the telltale creak of Ryan’s bed. Under his stiff, numb fingers, the lock at last clicked. “Bloody hell, you better have a good reason for waking up me and my grand—“

The door swung open, and Graham’s tirade died on his lips. He stared.

“Hiya, Graham.” The Doctor grinned, thin lips cracking. Rain trickled down her forehead, plastered dull blond locks to her face. She swayed on the stoop, unsteady and, Graham realized all of a sudden, incredibly pale. “Blimey, it’s good to see you.”

“Doctor—“ Graham could barely speak. In his ears, he could hear his heartbeat roaring. “How—“

“No time for questions, Graham.” The Doctor raised a wavering finger, blinking languidly.

“But—“

“I’ll explain," she said, and blinked hard, eyelashes fluttering. She was weaving, Graham realized, as if she were about to tip right over. "Right...after I—“

She never finished her sentence. Instead, her eyes rolled back into her head, and Graham had only a moment to realize what was happening before her chin nodded, and she passed out.

He caught her just before she hit the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have overwhelmed me with the response to the first chapter! thank you so much, I'm so glad to see people as excited about this idea as I am! I hope you like the next chapter, I've been dying to work on it for the past few days, but unfortunately school had me incredibly busy.
> 
> And as always, thank you for all the kind comments and kudos!

The silence of the hallway was broken only by the muffled tones of conversation leaking through the thick wooden door, too low for the Doctor to catch. He didn’t try. Instead, he slouched against the wall and played with the hem of his shirt, a perfect facsimile of careless patience.

An act, of course, but that didn’t matter. Whatever the senior command had to say to him, he would find out soon enough. A few minutes probably, if he could stand the wait.

Still, he hated it. Hated the wait, hated the emptiness of time passing. There was something about the lack of occupation that always put his teeth on edge, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. Whatever he waited for, he always had the peculiar feeling that it would never, ever come.

But that was a silly, childish feeling, and he was a child no longer. So he pressed his back against the wall and picked at a loose thread, and didn’t listen to the voices behind the door.

Until the door opened.

“Doctor.”

The Doctor’s head jerked up; a slow smile slid across his face.

“Kelas.” Just the person he wanted to see. A good friend inside the Division, and only barely his senior, having joined a few short years before the Doctor himself. He’d been promoted to senior command several months prior, but had done nothing to rub his newfound rank into the Doctor’s, or anybody else’s, faces. For that, the Doctor respected him.

“Are they ready for me?” He tilted his head towards the door, and Kelas nodded, then stepped aside and pushed it wide enough for the Doctor to pass through. 

“Expecting you. Might want to hurry on in.” He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Oh, and…maybe use a serial number when you enter. You know senior command don’t take kindly to nicknames.”

“It’s not—” The Doctor started, then gave up at the minuscule shake of Kelas’ head. He scowled, then pushed off the wall and brushed past him. “Thanks, Kelas. Talk to you later.”

“Don’t count on that.” Kelas grinned and slid past him, leaving the Doctor with an open mouth and a question on his lips. Kelas didn’t give him time to ask it; he slipped into the hallway, leaving the door to slam shut, trapping the Doctor in the short hallway before the meeting room of the Division senior command.

Alone. 

He didn’t dawdle, not with Kelas’ words ringing in his mind. He only took a second to adjust his sleeves and rip off the loose thread he’d been playing with, before stepping forward and pushing through the second door.

The senior command were waiting for him. Four members absent Kelas, they stared him down with characteristic pomposity, but the Doctor couldn’t find it in himself to care. Plenty of years had passed since the Time Lords had raised an entire civilization, but the Doctor had grown up when they lived in the dirt and the dust and the hard, rocky outskirts of what was now the Citadel. Slipped-on importance couldn’t bother him. Not when he knew his own life would be written in the Matrix for generations to come. 

Or at least, so his father had assured him. 

“Operative.” Senior command 4738 dipped her head. The Doctor smiled.

“5879.” He plucked a serial number out of thin air and offered it to them. Serial numbers were never static in the Division; it wasn’t secure enough. Rather, the Division had created an algorithm that encompassed millions of possible combinations, and expected every operative to have it memorized. A simple intellectual task to ensure a base level of intelligence throughout the Division. Easy enough to master. “I was called.”

“You were.” The senior operative dipped her head. “You’re probably wondering why.”

The Doctor’s smile dropped ever so slightly. Of course he had been wondering. Operatives were called before the senior command for two reasons: discipline or commendation, the latter usually in the form of a specialized mission. The best way to prove oneself, the Division believed, was to do so at the highest levels. Continuously. 

“I would never presume to question the wisdom of the senior command,” he hedged, and wondered vaguely if this was it. He couldn’t remember the details of his last mission—details were generally scrubbed out of his memory by the internal security team after every mission—but he didn’t think it had gone badly. Then again, who could know? Not him, certainly. “But—”

“Relax, 5879.” The lefthand senior command smiled. “This isn’t a disciplinary hearing.”

“Oh.” Relief momentarily collapsed the Doctor’s chest. Then, his smile rose once more. “I’d hoped not.”

“Hmm.” The smile of the lefthand senior command disappeared. They didn’t appreciate familiarity here—it lacked deference. “But we aren’t here to waste time on compliments, 5879. We’ve called you for a mission, one of utmost importance.”

A commendation, then. The Doctor could read between the lines, and his smile widened. His father would surely berate him later for this—his familiarity, his unwillingness to scrape and bow—but who cared? Once more, they were telling him exactly what he’d suspected.

He was the best they had. And once more, he was being asked to prove it.

“The mission parameters are this.” Senior command 4738 blinked, her eyes glazing over. Recalling the details of the mission. Moments later, the Doctor knew, it would be scrubbed from her mind. Impossible for details to leak if they didn’t exist. “A Judoon task force has tracked down a cold case—a missing fugitive, one they were apparently commissioned to find.” Her nose wrinkled. “By us.”

The Doctor’s eyes widened slightly. The Division didn’t often use troops outside their own, unless, for some reason, the operatives within the Division were compromised. Except that would imply that—

“The fugitive, from what we know, is an operative from the Division gone rogue,” senior command 4738 continued. 

Oh. 

“Gone rogue?” The words slipped out before he can help himself. “But who—”

“We don’t know.” 4738 looked distinctly unsatisfied by whatever she was about to say. “Apparently, when our operatives failed to find her—” she wrapped her tongue around each word as if it had an unpleasant taste, bitter and stinking of failure— “they sealed all files, past and future. Wiped her from the Division, more or less. We don’t know who she is, or why she went rogue. Still, now that she’s been caught—” she gave the smallest of shrugs— “it’s about time we bring her in.”

“I understand.” The Doctor nodded. His head was spinning, but he’d have to parse the facts later. For now, all that mattered was that he had a mission. That they had chosen him. “And you are requesting—”

“That you find her, and bring her back here to be put on trial.” The tone was mild, but the Doctor understood the implications hidden with. There was no such thing as trial within the Division. The fugitive would be stripped apart, mentally and physically, every inch examined until they understood how she had gone rogue, and why. Then, she would be killed as many times as it took to finish her off. Lastly, all memory of her would be wiped from their species as a whole, including from the Matrix. 

Not the nicest way to go. The Doctor would have winced in sympathy, except he couldn’t help but feel they had it coming. Anybody stupid enough to run off from the Division knew what awaited them.

“It should be an easy job,” 4738 continued. “The Judoon have her in a high security prison. Pick her up, and bring her back here. That’s all we ask. Still—”

The Doctor nodded, “I understand.”

And he did. Easy job or no, they were asking him for a reason. The Doctor wasn’t stupid; he knew that, if one had to pick out the top operative within the Division, their finger would land upon him. And with this, he had no qualms. His father may have gotten him the interview, but the Doctor had passed the tests himself. Worked his way up himself. All his success created by his own hands, just to show that he could do more for his adopted species than contribute a little genetic material. 

He was more than that. Perhaps that genetic material would be his legacy within the Matrix, whenever they finished building the narrative of their species, but he, at least, would know that he was more. That he had paid back his dues.

The senior command were looking at him, waiting for a response, so quickly, he collected his thoughts and dipped his head. “Thank you. I’m honored that you would have chosen me.”

Those were the kind of words the senior command liked to hear. 4738 smiled at him, and leaned forward in her seat. “We expect you to do well. You will leave immediately.”

“Immediately?” The Doctor hesitated. “But—”

“Immediately,” 4738 confirmed. “This is a high security matter. We can’t waste time.”

“Oh. Of course.” The Doctor swallowed, the last dregs of his smile disappearing. “Thank you, senior command. I’ll leave now.”

“Good.” 4738 dipped her head, and the Doctor knew he was being dismissed. He didn’t linger, but turned on his heel, his head whirling with all that he had just learned.

A fugitive from the Division. An agent gone rogue from the future. And he, chosen to bring her in. As he slid through the second door that led into the main hallway, he couldn’t help his smile from creeping up his face again, this time hidden from the senior command. Yet again, they had chosen him. He, adopted son of the founder of the Time Lords. More than whatever foot his father had used to get him in the door.

He was an operative within the Division. No, the _best_ operative within the Division. Now, all he had to do was prove it.

————

By the early hours of the morning, Yaz, Ryan and Graham had taken up extended residence in the front room, Ryan and Graham squished uneasily on the couch, while Yaz perched on the edge of Graham’s chair. All three of them held cups of quickly cooling tea; nobody took a sip. 

The house was small, Yaz thought miserably, and sound carried. Even from the upstairs to the downstairs, which was why they could hear the creak of Ryan’s bed frame and the moans and cries as the Doctor tossed and turned. 

She’d been like that since Yaz had arrived, a little after one in the morning. Graham and Ryan had already eased her into bed by the time she’d shown up on the doorstep, so there had been nothing for Yaz to do except stand in the doorway and watch as the Doctor, pallid as a ghost, her face screwed up in agony, mumbled and cried out in a language they couldn’t understand.

“She’s sick,” Graham had said, and Yaz had to agree. “Showed up on the doorstep just like that, barely said two words and then collapsed. Lucky I caught her.”

“Lucky I was there to help you get her up the stairs,” Ryan had muttered, but he kept his eyes fixed upon the Doctor, and Yaz could see the worry lined into his forehead. She knew it was on her own face as well, much as she tried to pull the ‘everything is fine’ look. She was so good at wearing it at work.

The problem was, everything wasn’t fine. The Doctor was unconscious and clearly in pain, and after hours of watching her—too worried to wake her up—they had retired downstairs to pretend to sip tea and not talk about the elephant in the room.

What was there to talk about? So much, and nothing at all. The big question—whether the Doctor was alive—had been answered. Except that had come with a billion other questions, and the only one who could answer them was the Doctor.

And the Doctor was clearly not okay.

“Well, now we know why the Doctor didn’t come back.” Ryan broke the silence first, shifting uncomfortably on the couch in such a way as to nearly spill his tea. He leaned forward to set it on the coffee table, then glanced between the other two. “I mean, she’s in a state, isn’t she? She must have—well, I dunno.”

“Gotten sidetracked,” Graham grunted, but it was clear by the look on his face that even he didn’t know what that meant. None of them did. 

“Sidetracked how?” Yaz burst out. “How did she even escape? We thought—”

“Maybe Ko Sharmus got to her,” Ryan said. When Yaz looked at him, he shrugged. “I mean, he went after her, didn’t he? Maybe he got her out. Or something.”

Graham snorted. “Or something.” He shook his head, glancing dolefully towards the stairs as another quiet moan sounded from Ryan’s room. “Bloody hell, she’s a mess though, if you don’t mind me saying. I mean, when she showed up. I thought she was going to—”

“Pass out?” Graham glanced over at Ryan’s words, then gave a small shrug, falling silent. Yaz only watched them, incredibly torn. She didn’t want to be sitting here, balancing a cold cup of tea on her knee. She wanted to be upstairs, administering first aid, or something, only there was nothing to be done. Yaz had checked the Doctor over when she’d arrived, and found no physical injuries, other than her general emaciated appearance. The only sign of instability was the inscrutable agony upon her face, and her ill ease, even in sleep; she tossed and turned and cried out, and nothing they could do, short of waking her up, would calm her down.

“We shouldn’t wake her up, should we?” Yaz asked, half desperately, even though she knew what the answer would be. Sure enough, Ryan shook his head; Graham just looked grim.

“She looks like she could use the sleep,” Ryan said quietly, and Yaz nodded, though her heart was sinking. 

“I know,” she said quietly. “It’s just—”

“Nightmares, isn’t it?” Graham asked. His mouth was cut into a hard line, his lips thinned. Yaz watched him glance once more towards the stairs, before turning back to her and Ryan. “I mean, sounds like it. Only she’s never had nightmares like this before.”

“Never seen her sleep before,” Ryan pointed out. “Not proper sleep, I mean. Once I found her dozing under the console, but that don’t really count, does it?”

“No,” Yaz said, suppressing a wince as another distant cry rippled through the air. “I guess you’re right. I just hate seeing her like this. I mean, I didn’t think we’d get to see her at all, ever, but—”

“Well, that’s something, though,” Graham said, thin optimism in his voice. “Isn’t it? I was only just thinking about that when she showed up—er, just before. We never thought we’d see her again. And she’s here.”

Ryan shook his head, a faint smile etching his lips. “Can’t believe she made it out of there, if I’m being honest.”

“I can,” Yaz put in immediately, voice rising. Ryan and Graham looked at her, surprise raising their eyebrows, but she just leaned forward to place her tea on the coffee table. Hadn’t really wanted it anyway. “I mean, it’s the Doctor. I always figured she’d find a way. She couldn’t just _die_.”

She faltered on the word ‘die’, but finished anyway and pursed her lips, defiant though she didn’t know why. Maybe because of that smaller elephant hanging in the room between them, the one nobody wanted to talk about. How Ryan and Graham had begun to move on, and she hadn’t. How she’d kept up hope, because that was what the Doctor would do. How she’d believed, long after it was stupid to do so.

Ryan and Graham didn’t say anything for a long moment. Ryan glanced at her, then looked away, but Graham took a second to study her, his eyes sad. Then he too glanced away, and gave a rather embarrassed cough.

“Suppose you’re right, Yaz,” he said at last, then corrected himself. “Were right.”

“Oh.” Yaz stared at him for a moment, unsure what to say. She hadn’t really expected him to say anything about it. Then, Graham was better than most at saying what needed to be said. “Uh, yeah. I mean, not that—”

“Right about what?”

A weak voice issued from the hallway, sending them all spinning. Yaz was on her feet in an instant.

“Doctor!”

The Doctor leaned—or perhaps melted—against the door frame, cheek resting against the wood. She looked as if she didn’t have the strength to attempt balancing on both feet. Her face was a deathly white, her gaze hollow. Her eyes flitted over the stunned lot of them, but at Yaz’s exclamation, fluttered to her. Slowly, achingly, a smile spread across her lips.

“Hiya, Yaz. Is it morning?”

“Uh—” Yaz hesitated. Her eyes darted to the clock on the wall—half past four in the morning—before settling once more on the Doctor. “Uh, yeah. About time to be waking up. Unless you want to sleep again. Are you feeling alright?”

The Doctor made a face and, with creaky slowness, pushed herself off the door frame. “Ugh, no. Hate sleep. Too much happens when you’re asleep. Look, you’ve already had tea without me.”

Yaz glanced to the cups on the coffee table, and swallowed a smile. Pure relief fluttered in her stomach. “We can make more.”

“I’ll make more!” Ryan dove for the cups, scooping them hastily in his arms before springing to his feet. “The Doctor can have my chair. Or, uh, we can sit at the table. Whichever you want, Doctor.”

But the Doctor was already shaking her head. “Can’t. I’m sorry, Ryan. I shouldn’t be here at all. Only meant to get to my TARDIS, but my vortex manipulator—” She broke off, frowning, and raised a thin wrist. “Hang on. Where’s my vortex manipulator?”

“You mean this?” Graham reached into his pocket, and dangled the strap to a black object, similar to a wristwatch. They had prized it off the Doctor when they’d put her to bed, along with her boots and coat. Yaz had wanted to change her into pajamas as well—her clothes were filthy—but had been overruled by the others, neither of whom wanted to risk waking her. Now she stood sock-footed in dirty trousers and an untucked shirt, one brace hanging off her shoulder. Her hair was a mess about her face, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh.” The Doctor took a shaky step forward, her smile widening. It was, Yaz realized now, slightly forced. “You saved it for me. Thanks. Now, if you don’t mind—”

She took another step forward, hand out, only for her smile to vanish as Graham dropped it back into his pocket.

“Sorry, cockle.” He shook his head, patting his pocket. Her eyes followed the movement of his hand longingly. “Think we ought to get some food into you first. And tea, if you’re wanting.”

She shook her head. “I’m not—I really need, actually to be—OW!”

Without warning she doubled over, her hand flying to her forehead. Yaz was by her side in an instant, which was just as well; the Doctor sagged, all the strength going out of her, and then keeled forward, right into Yaz’s arms.

“Oi,” she complained, which Yaz couldn’t help but think was a bit rich, considering the situation, and immediately attempted to pull away, though it was clear she hadn’t the strength. “I’m fine, really. Just—just—”

“Passing out into my shoulder.” Yaz used all her strength to hoist her upright, despite a grumble of complaint, and with a nod from Graham, began to move her towards the kitchen table. The Doctor went willingly, despite her earlier protest. “Doctor, are you sure you’re okay? You look—”

“Like I’ve become death,” the Doctor said, and laughed bitterly. “M’fine, Yaz, just a little—oh. Ow.”

Her hand went to her temple and she screwed up her face, voice trailing off. “Ooh, that doesn’t feel good. I can’t—AAH!”

She jerked and shrunk in on herself, curling into Yaz’s shoulder and burying her head into Yaz’s jacket. Hands clutched greedily at her lapels, like a child at the hem of a mother’s dress.

“Don’t want—” she muttered, and let out a whimper. “Mum, please—”

“Mum?” Ryan mouthed softly from where he stood by the kitchen table. Yaz only shook her head, her heart pounding. She’d never heard the Doctor mention a mother before. Anybody other than her seven grannies, which she’d introduced with a dismissive wave of her hand and then never mentioned again.

But then, it was just like that with the Doctor.

“Doctor?” Yaz shifted, bringing her slightly higher. “Are you—”

“Fine,” the Doctor gasped, and abruptly straightened—too fast. She stumbled, and Yaz was forced to catch her again, drawing her close. “M’fine, I swear. Just had a wobble.” She looked around wildly. “Where am I? Where is this?”

“My house.” Graham moved towards her from behind. At his voice, she attempted to spin around, stopping only thanks to Yaz’s firm grip. “You showed up last night, Doctor. Didn’t seem that well, then or—” he hesitated. “Now.” 

“Well?” The Doctor stared at him, then twisted around to look at Ryan, who stood helplessly, his hands full of steaming mugs. “Am I ill?”

“We don’t know,” Yaz told her honestly. The Doctor turned in her grip, and stared at her. Her eyes were wild, she noticed, her hair disheveled. Dried tear tracks streaked her face, though Yaz couldn’t recall that she had been crying. “You seem a bit out of sorts, Doctor. And we don’t know how you got here.”

“I told you.” The Doctor stared at her. “Vortex manipulator. I was—I was—”

She stumbled on the words, then fell silent, mouth still working uselessly, and glanced between the three of them as if they might hold the answer. They could only stared back, equally befuddled.

“I think I was in jail,” she said quietly, and ignored Graham’s huff of surprise to turn to the table, frowning at the mugs of tea in Ryan’s hands. “I was—they were bringing someone in, and I had—I had to—”

“You had to what, Doctor?” Yaz prompted. At her words however, the Doctor cut off once more, gazing at the mugs. Her brow furrowed.

Then she chuckled, her entire face relaxing. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she shook her head.

“Oh,” she said, and laughed again, loud and unnatural. Strained, with what Yaz realized suddenly to be fear. “Oh, I remember now. I wasn’t escaping. No—I was escaping. But—but I was also—” She frowned, staring off into the distance. For several moments, silence reigned.

“Also what, Doctor?” Yaz said at last, impatience edging her tone. For several seconds, the Doctor didn’t answer.

Then she gave a slight shake of her head and turned to Yaz, face solemn and bemused.

“Dying,” she said softly. “I was dying.”


	3. Chapter 3

Despite the senior command’s warning, he didn’t leave immediately. Instead, he went to visit his father.

It wouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. A short conversation was barely trackable within the time streams, and even the senior command of the Division wouldn’t say no to his father. Politics forced their silence, much as they seethed at the Doctor’s little pokings and proddings, his testing of the limits. Sometimes, he just couldn’t resist; sometimes, he felt he deserved it, all things considering.

His father must have been expecting him, for he turned the moment the Doctor stepped into his private quarters, and smiled.

“Bani.” He stepped towards the Doctor, his eyes, as usual, sweeping over the Doctor’s form. Checking, worrying. There was nothing, the Doctor knew, that put his father in more of a state than the security of the Doctor’s physical self.

The most precious thing in the world, he had called the Doctor more than once. His lives, his self. His bani, worth more than the riches of a thousand planets.

“Father.” The Doctor tilted his head, but couldn’t help the warm smile that broke out over his face. “I wanted to see you. I’m leaving in a moment. I have—”

“A mission.” His father raised one finger, silencing him. A warning, and a reminder. Even to him, he was not to speak of the comings and goings of the Division. No matter that his father, once the simple explorer Tecteun, now founder of a civilization, knew everything that happened within Time Lord society. “I didn’t expect you to see me. You were meant to leave immediately.”

There it was, the reprimand. Slight, but there nonetheless. The Doctor’s smile disappeared, and he swallowed the grimace that rose in its place.

“I know, I just—” He hesitated. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

“You’d be back soon,” his father replied, but the words were mild, and the grin that spread across his face was genuine. The Doctor could see the pride glinting in his eyes, deep but not nearly hidden, and warmth flushed through him.

Proving himself to the Division was one thing. Proving himself to his father, who had found him, and raised him, and saved his life—that was another thing entirely. 

“So you aren’t glad to see me?” he teased. “I can’t imagine you would rather me leave without a word.”

“I can’t imagine you would follow the orders given to you either.” His father affected a deep sigh, and shook his head, but he stepped forward anyway, and reached out. “Come here, bani.”

Forgiven. The Doctor stepped forward into his father’s embrace, allowed himself to be hugged and kissed upon the cheek, to have his hair gently ruffled. He didn’t bother over the rebuke; he knew it wasn’t genuine. Such a meeting was tradition before his missions, though his father always took care to pretend that it wasn’t. He hated to let the Doctor out of his sight, hated the thought that he wouldn’t return. 

“You’re precious to me,” he would tell him. “Precious to all of us. You have to return.”

So the Doctor did. Always. And before he left, he visited his father, and allowed himself the luxury of being a child again, to hide in his father’s arms. He was too old for this, he knew, but he couldn’t quite bear to give it up. His father’s embrace was a safe space, a home where he’d had none. It was his father’s hands that had reached out to him when he’d been lost and young and alone, and his father’s hands that had held him through the dreadful, half-remembered experiments of his childhood. The experiments which, his father had assured him, had saved their entire race.

“You’ve given us a gift,” he had told the Doctor. “And with it, I made us great. That’s what you are, bani. A gift. So don’t waste it.”

And then he would touch the Doctor’s nose like he’d had when he was a little girl, and smile, and the Doctor knew what he meant. Don’t waste it. Be the best of the Division, yes, but stay alive. Because he was worth nothing dead. He was worth nothing at all, except what he made of himself.

Which was the other reason he had come.

“Father—” he pulled back, though his hands remained on his father’s forearms. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Ask me—” For a moment, his father looked confused. Then he frowned and pulled away, leaving only the ghost of warmth on the Doctor’s skin. “Oh, not _this_ again.”

He turned towards the window and tucked his arms behind his back, transforming in an instant into a man the Doctor knew all too well. Not his father, but the founder. The one who had made Gallifrey into the power it was today.

“I just wanted to ask.” The Doctor hesitated, watching his father’s expression shift in the glass. A stern frown pulled at his lips, and his eyes had gone icy and hard. “To make sure.”

His father sighed. “You never have to.” Then he turned, robes sweeping, with such a sudden movement that the Doctor took a step back. “You don’t need to ask this time and _time_ and again. You should trust me. You always have before.”

“I do,” the Doctor said instantly. “Of course I do. But this mission—it’s important, father. More important than any I’ve been given. I need to make sure—”

“I didn’t get it for you,” he answered, slicing the Doctor’s sentence in two. “I don’t play favorites, bani. Not even for my own child. If I did, you would be by my side on the High Council.” He smiled, just to show he was joking, but the Doctor caught the sterile harshness in his gaze, the sudden void. The switch that he knew all too well.

It was this person who had strapped him to a chair and stripped out the secrets of a life prolonged. Not his father, who had comforted him after the fact, rocked him to sleep, given him toys and sweets to dry his tears. They weren’t one and the same, he knew. But sometimes, they felt it.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, tripping over his own tongue in his haste. “I don’t doubt you, father. I never have.”

Instantly, his father softened, the ice in his eyes melting away. “Oh, I know you don’t,” he said quietly, and though he didn’t speak the words, the Doctor felt the apology in them. “But I, above anybody, know the value of a reward justly earned. I would never deny you yours.”

“Oh,” the Doctor said. Relief fluttered through him. “Of course. I know, I just—”

“Never mind.” His father cut him off with a flippant wave of his hand. “You want your own success. I can understand that.” He smiled, and it was still slightly rigid, but genuine enough that the Doctor knew he was forgiven. “And you’ll have it, bani. If you keep working. I believe in you.”

“Oh. Uh—thank you, father,” the Doctor said. His father only nodded, and turned back to the window, signifying the end of the conversation. “I’ll make you proud.”

“And you’ll come home safe,” he said softly, so low that the Doctor nearly missed it. Possibly, it wasn’t meant for him.

“I will,” he promised, and, because he was already running late, and he didn’t want to risk his father’s harsh gaze again, he turned on his heel and left.

—————

Yaz could only stare at the Doctor. In between the four of them, silence stretched like putty, languid and thick.

Finally, Graham coughed quietly, and shuffled his feet.

“Now what do you mean by that, Doc?” he said in a soft voice. Gentle, like one might talk to a scared child. “You aren’t—you don’t—”

The Doctor didn’t turn to look at him. She kept Yaz’s gaze, frowning slightly, as if trying to translate the expression upon her face. 

“Dying,” she repeated. “I think I’m dying. There’s something wrong with me, Yaz.”

“I—“ Yaz didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what to say. It was the Doctor who always knew what to do, except now she was apparently dying, apparently in trouble, and none of them knew of what sort. “Doctor—”

“Why don’t you sit down for tea?” Ryan’s voice came firm but kind behind Yaz, and she couldn’t have been more thankful. She nodded without even looking at Ryan, and reached out, proffering her arm.

“Ryan is right. I can help you to the table, Doctor.”

“I don’t need help,” the Doctor said, still frowning, but after a moment she sighed and gave her own arm, allowing Yaz to take some of her weight. She wasn’t heavy, not at all, and Yaz couldn’t help but worry over this as they inched together towards the table, Graham trailing behind.

They seated themselves without a word. The Doctor herself made no attempt to start conversation. She only reached for the sugar, dumped six spoonfuls into her tea, then stirred it listlessly, her eyes glued upon the table, though her gaze was somewhere far away. Vaguely, Yaz wondered what she was seeing.

“Doc…?” It was Graham who broke the silence, his eyes fixed worriedly upon the Doctor. At her name, the Doctor’s gaze jerked up, and her spoon stopped mid-circle. “Not to be rude or anything, but…well, we thought you were dead.”

“Really?” The Doctor frowned. “Why?”

“Because you were going to sacrifice yourself,” Ryan pointed out. “Remember? You took the bomb and the lone Cyberman and went off. Told us not to follow.”

“Except Ko Sharmus did, didn’t he?” Yaz leaned forward despite herself, relief and guilt washing through her chest. Guilt that they hadn’t been able to stop him, and relief that he had made it anyway. Probably not the right thing to feel, but she couldn’t help it. Not when her best friend was sitting before her, alive and—well, not well. Alive. That was enough. “We tried to stop him, but—”

“He took my place.” The Doctor’s gaze had dropped back to the table, but her spoon stayed motionless in her mug, the handle caught between two fingers. “He told me to run, and I—”

She made to shrug, as if it didn’t matter, but Yaz could tell that it did. The shrug turned into a jerky roll of her shoulders, and then she winced and shook her head slightly, as if shying away from an abrasive sound.

“Doesn’t matter,” she forced out. The spoon, now caught in a white-knuckled grip, scraped against the rim of the mug. Yaz watched it, something heavy settling in her chest. She couldn’t quite identify what it was. Dread, maybe. Or only a terrible, sinking realization, that the Doctor probably was right. She was dying, or at the least very ill, and none of them had a clue what was going on.

“I think the sugar’s mixed in, Doc,” Graham said gently. When the Doctor looked at him, he only nodded to her spoon, grasped tightly in her hand. She followed his gaze, then slowly raised it from the mug and set it to the side. The tips of her fingers trembled.

“I was going to pick you lot up,” she said. Her eyes remained on the spoon. She lined it up carefully against the wood grain, then wiped drops of tea on the table and looked up. Her eyes moved between the three of them before settling on Yaz. 

“I meant to,” she said, her tone so mournfully honest she might have been pleading. As if she had to convince them. “I was just about to hop back to the twenty first century, when—”

She cut off with a wince and pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead for three long seconds—Yaz counted each one—before lowing it shakily and looking up again. When she spoke, her tone was forcibly brisk, as if she were gutting each word out through gritted teeth.

“In Gloucester,” she said. “With the Judoon. Do you remember when I told you the fugitive turned out to be me?”

“’Course,” Ryan said, and leaned forward, settling his chin into his palms. “But that was ages ago.”

“They caught up to me.” The Doctor swallowed hard through clenched teeth. There was a pained look about the set of her jaw, as if she were trying very hard not to fall to pieces. “Me—the fugitive—it doesn’t matter. I thought—well, I never bothered to clear my name. So they took me in.”

“Took you in?” Graham exclaimed, and set his mug down with a clatter, leaning forward. “Doc, are you trying to tell us you’ve been in jail all this time?”

“Oh my days,” Ryan whispered. 

“Doctor—” Yaz stared at her, that same feeling as before solidifying in her gut. Closer to horror now. 

The Doctor only laughed bitterly, and gave a small shake of her head. “Prison maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know how long I’ve been there. Was there. I mean—AUGH!”

She bit off with a cry and curled forward, her head cradled in her palms. Yaz reached out without thinking, but the Doctor jerked at her touch, then bolted upright with a gasp.

“Fine,” she said. “I’m fine. Are we—” She looked around wildly. “Is this the senior command?”

“It’s us, Doctor,” Yaz said. “It’s me, Ryan and Graham. You—your fam.”

“Oh.” The Doctor stared at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, a relieved smile broke out across her face, and she nodded. “Right. My fam. Did I tell you all I’ve been in prison?”

“Yeah,” Ryan said, “just now. Doctor, are you okay?”

“’Course I’m okay,” the Doctor said with a frown. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Keep going out on us, love,” Graham said. He was watching the Doctor with careful, concerned eyes, a deep furrow in his brow. “Did they—did they do something to you in that prison?”

“Do some—? Oh, no. No, no.” The Doctor shook her head and let out another laugh, hollowed and, Yaz thought, slightly desperate. “No, that’s something else. A parting gift. Some memories in my head, sort of half decrypted, only they’re not really supposed to—oh, blimey that hurts.”

She cringed in on herself, squeezing her eyes shut, leaving the fam to stare. And they did, for a long moment, frozen in worried uncertainty, until Ryan cast Yaz a distressed look. The kind that said _what should we do?_

Yaz had no clue, but taking action was one thing she was good at. The only thing, she felt sometimes, and that was enough to jolt her forward, out of hesitation and into actually doing something.

“Doctor,” she said firmly, and reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder, ignoring the corresponding flinch but keeping her touch light, just in case. “We want to help you. But we need to know what’s happened to you. And why you think you’re dying.”

For a moment, the Doctor didn’t respond. She kept her eyes squeezed shut and her fingers clamped upon the edge of the table, hard enough to turn her knuckles white. Beneath Yaz’s hand, she felt rigid as a board.

Finally, she spoke. “I—it’s not something you would understand. It’s—it’s memory technology, or something similar. I have these memories in my head, things I’m not supposed to remember, and they’re decrypting themselves.”

“Decrypting—?” Ryan started to ask, only for Graham to hurriedly shush him. The Doctor gave another tiny, clenched-jaw shake of her head, then continued.

“They aren’t supposed to be there,” she growled. “I can’t—I can’t remember these things. Not like this, not with—without the proper technology, which doesn’t exist anymore. It’s eating my brain up from the inside, and I can’t—I can’t—” She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and paused, just for a moment. Then she let it out in a sigh, which might have been closer to a moan, and sagged.

“It hurts,” she groaned, falling back against her chair. Her eyes stayed closed, but her hands came up and pressed once more to her forehead. “I need—I need the proper technology to decrypt the memories he returned to me, or I need—I need to wipe them, but I don’t—”

“Don’t what, Doctor?” Yaz leaned forward, her hand still on the Doctor’s shoulder though she wasn’t sure if it was helping much. “How can we help you?”

For a moment, the Doctor didn’t answer. Then, slowly, she lowered her hands, and pinned Yaz with a weary, mournful gaze.

“You can’t,” she said. “I—you don’t have the technology. I need the TARDIS, and I have to get back to her before—”

Just then, the entire house plunged into darkness. Yaz jumped in surprise, at the same time that Ryan let out a muffled yep. From Graham’s direction came a muttered curse.

“Bloody power lines—”

And then, a voice boomed throughout the house.

“FLO SO CO BLO PO FLO DO SHO FO TRO GO KRO TO KRO VO FLO SHO HO BLO SO SHO BO FLO FLO NO SHO LO PLO CO BLO TO FLO DO BLA SHO GO RO PLO TRO NO DO SHO PO LO BLO TO PLO PLO NO SHO DO KRO SO PO BLO TO CO HO FLO DO SHO TO PLO SHO BLO PO PO RO FLO HO FLO NO DO SHO FO TRO GO KRO TO KRO VO FLO BLA SHO BLO NO YO SHO HO TRO MO BLO NO SO SHO FO PLO TRO NO DO SHO TO PLO SHO BO FLO SHO HO BLO RO BO PLO RO KRO NO GO SHO TO HO FLO SHO FLO SO CO BLO PO FLO DO SHO FO TRO GO KRO TO KRO VO FLO SHO WO KRO LO LO SHO BO FLO SHO PO RO PLO SO FLO CO TRO TO FLO DO SHO TRO NO DO FLO RO SHO JO TRO DO PLO PLO NO SHO BLO RO TO KRO CO LO FLO SHO TO WO FLO NO TO YO SHO FO PLO TRO RO BLA.”

The guttural sounds rebounded throughout the building, and throughout the street as well—and possibly, Yaz realized suddenly, throughout the entire town. It echoed in the distance, over and over and over again.

From before her came the Doctor’s voice, quiet and grim.

“Before that,” she finished. “Before they find me.”

—————

“Operative—”

“2307,” the Doctor finished coldly for the Judoon captain, who balked slightly, but accepted it. They didn’t like working with the Division, for a whole heap of reasons. Didn’t like that the Division wiped their memory after all missions, and didn’t like that they were expected to speak in Gallifreyan. They especially didn’t like that the operatives from the Division refused to use their real names, probably because, in the Doctor’s private opinion, they were too stupid to remember the differing codes. 

Judoon. Good for police work, and not much else.

“Why did the Division hire you again?” he asked as they strode down the dank and dripping hallway, and couldn’t resist wrinkling his nose at the cells on either side. Low, common criminals, just smart enough to blow up galaxies, but dumb enough to get caught. Vaguely, he wondered how this fugitive had gotten caught at all, if they had come from the Division. Division operatives were a step above the rest. Well, maybe twelve steps.

The Judoon captain growled, but answered anyway, her voice guttural and harsh. “Division did not want dirty hands. Judoon offered their services. And followed up on case where Division did not.”

The Doctor’s lip curled at the implication, but he didn’t comment. Not worth throwing hands with a Judoon. They only got offended when you won. 

“And why didn’t the Division wipe your memory following the mission?”

Something that might have been a laugh, too brief for the Doctor to properly register—which might have been for the better. Anger curled in his gut, and his fists tightened at his sides. It would have been incredibly satisfying, he thought, to tear the Judoon captain’s horn right off her face. The only thing that stopped him was that she didn’t have one.

That, and that he didn’t have time to lose.

“Fugitive killed Division operative meant to take her in,” the Judoon answered. “Fugitive escaped. Judoon Cold Case Unit tracked fugitive down, and now await payment.”

“You’ll get payment,” the Doctor spat as they turned a corner, and came upon a dark hallway with a single door at the end. Solitary, which was to be expected. If the fugitive had killed an operative—well, maybe he truly was up for a challenge with this one. “Once I bring the fugitive in. Is this their cell?”

He beckoned down the hallway. The Judoon captain only grunted in answer and pushed past him—possibly the weakest power play he’d ever seen, he thought indignantly—and strode forward, leaving the Doctor to catch up.

He did easily, and wondered darkly if there were some other prized body part the Judoon captain would like to be parted with.

“Judoon captain So Mo Kro To Ho requesting access,” the Judoon captain growled into the intercorm the moment she arrived, then settled back and waited. For a second, there was nothing. Then the intercom crackled, and a grunted reply came through, followed by a series of clicks within the door itself.

And more clicks, and more. Hundreds in rapid succession, the Doctor counted quickly, and despite himself, he couldn’t help but be impressed. It’d take years, and the proper tools, to pick that lock. Even an operative of the Division would take time.

He stepped forward the moment the door swung open, only for the Judoon captain’s hand to press against his chest.

“Judoon jurisdiction covers cell itself,” the Judoon captain grunted, leaving the Doctor to seethe. 

“I have already claimed authority over this—” he started to say, but the Judoon captain was already stepping inside, blocking his way.

And continuing to block his way. She stopped just within the doorway and didn’t move, a tad too tall and broad for the Doctor to make out anything beyond her armored back.

“No need to navel gaze,” he said irritably, but the Judoon captain didn’t move. She only continued to stare at something the Doctor couldn’t see. Then, abruptly, she whirled around, her eyes wide with a panic that the Doctor hadn’t thought the Judoon to have the emotional capacity to experience.

“Operative will follow Judoon captain to be properly briefed.” She began to push him out the door, or tried to, but the Doctor was stronger. Well, not stronger—smarter.

“Get out of my way,” he growled, and employed a quick and dirty trick, shifting the timelines just enough to have made it that the Judoon captain entered the cell a little to the left. Exactly out of his way, and as she stumbled backwards, disoriented by the sudden jump in time—she would barely notice a blip, with her tiny brain—he pushed past her and into the cell.

And stopped, just where the Judoon captain had stood. And stared.

Because the cell was empty. The fugitive was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So 'bani' is a word I found from a fanmade Gallifreyan dictionary, which denotes a term of endearment. I thought it would be fitting for their relationship here. 
> 
> We're doing things a little out of order as well, as I'm sure you can see! I like playing around with things like these, because of course, time isn't linear. We see the Judoon get to the Doctor, and then only afterwards see that the Doctor escaped - but in the web of time, isn't it all happening simultaneously? I love to mess around with past, present and future, so you might see more of this in the fic. I'm not entirely sure yet, but just a heads up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey its ya boi back at it with another chapter

“They’re gone.” For a moment, the Doctor just gaped. Then he spun around and jabbed a finger at the Judoon captain. “How long have they been gone?”

It was clear immediately that the captain didn’t have an answer. She cringed slightly under the reprimand, then abruptly corrected herself and straightened enough to tower over the Doctor.

“Fugitive was confirmed to be in cell moments prior,” she growled, bristling. “Fugitive should not have escaped!”

“Except they did,” the Doctor spat, his hearts pounding like a drum. Leave it to Judoon incompetency— “And you idiots didn’t even notice!”

The Judoon glared at him blearily, speechless in contempt. They both knew he was right. Problem was, the Judoon had too much pride and not quite enough sense to match it.

Slowly, the Judoon captain raised her wrist, upon which sat a communicator. “All units raise the—”

“No.” The Doctor reached out and slammed the communicator off-button. The Judoon growled and yanked her hand away, but didn’t protest. Good. “I won’t have my name attached to a public uproar. Clearly, you aren’t effective in command. I’m taking over this investigation.”

“What?” The Judoon captain balked. “Non-Judoon warriors are not permitted—”

“I’m not a warrior. I’m an operative. And you’re too incapacitated to lead.”

The Judoon captain glowered at him. “Judoon captain So Mo Kro To Ho is not—”

“Now you are.” Swiftly, before the captain could so much as pull away, the Doctor reached up to press a hand to her temple. Carefully, with practiced precision, he shoved in a trick he’d learned long ago and oft employed. The moment of her death, vivid and horrifying, slid in like a needle under skin.

The captain howled. Then she collapsed, no more than a crumpled pile on the floor. She might have been dead. The Doctor didn’t bother to check. Instead, he only bent down to unloop her communicator, then straightened and strode out of the empty prison cell. As he walked, he talked.

“I need the identifying number for the platoon under command of Judoon captain So Mo Kro To Ho. I’m requisitioning forces for a tracking mission. All soldiers report immediately to holding bay.”

His mission was spinning slowly out of its parameters, like a satellite knocked loose from orbit. Definitely not the easy nab and grab he’d signed up for. Not that it mattered. The parameters might change—the end goal wouldn’t.

It just might take a little more doing.

—————

The alarms blared. In the darkness, they were frozen. 

“Doc,” Graham whispered behind Yaz, “what exactly are they after you for?”

“Probably,” the Doctor said, “because I went on parole. Unapproved.”

“Of course,” Ryan muttered. Then Yaz heard the scrape of chair, a muttered curse, and the sound of Ryan’s footsteps, heading to the kitchen.

“Torch is in the left drawer!” Graham called. Ryan only grunted in response. A moment later, there was a click, and a beam of light bounced through the kitchen entrance, cast the entire room in ghostly illumination.

“And that’s my cue,” the Doctor said. “I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry, but—”

Before Yaz could respond, the Doctor pushed her hand from her shoulder and rocked unevenly to her feet.

“Graham,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “I need that vortex manipulator.”

Graham shook his head. “You ain’t getting it, hun. We’re going to sit down, and work this out to—Oi!”

He lurched back as the Doctor lunged for him, loosing a cry of surprise. “What the hell are you—”

“I’m sorry!” The Doctor scrambled back, and as she did, Yaz caught a flash of metal on her wrist. Her heart leapt. “I’m so sorry, fam, but I can’t—I’m not going to let—”

She wasn’t even looking at them, Yaz thought, too busy keying something into the vortex thingy. Too busy running off. Again. 

Anger surged in her, and without thinking, she was on her feet.

“Give us the watch, Doctor,” she said quietly. The Doctor looked up, the white of her face illuminated in the dark, and in that moment, she looked caught. Like an animal, trapped before three predators.

Only they were her _friends_.

“No,” the Doctor said, and stuck her chin out, like a petulant child. Distantly, the announcement still boomed. Insistent, irritating. How long, Yaz wondered, before they started searching? “I can’t put you lot in danger.”

“You aren’t,” Yaz lied, because she really didn’t care. “And you’d be a pretty bad friend, going off on your own.”

The Doctor stared at her. In the torchlight, she looked even worse; her face was drawn, her eyes clothed in dark shadows. She looked sick, Yaz thought, and her stomach lurched with worry.

“Okay,” the Doctor said. Her jaw clenched, tightening around a look of anguished guilt, and that was exactly what tipped Yaz off as to what she was about to do.

Graham realized in the same moment, and heaved himself to his feet. “Doctor, don’t you dare press that—”

But he was too far to do any good, and the Doctor was stubborn, but Yaz—Yaz was close, and she was stubborn too. She reacted without thinking; she saw the Doctor’s thumb press upon the button, felt the ozone fizz around them, and lunged forward, wrapping her fingers around the Doctor’s bony wrist.

“Yes!” she cried out, in the same moment that the Doctor cried “No!” and didn’t have time to say anything else, for in that moment, the world around them disappeared, and darkness sucked them through.

————

The Judoon followed the Doctor uneasily, but they followed him. All the way to the twenty first century.

“She can’t be here,” the Judoon lieutenant growled, lengthening his stride so as to catch up with the Doctor. It was irritating, the Doctor thought, and almost unnecessary, except that he needed a Judoon lieutenant to lead the Judoon platoon he had commandeered. The Doctor had no qualms with putting the Judoon under his direct command, but he had neither the time nor desire to do so. “No reason for the fugitive to be in the twenty first century.”

“You said they were found in a place called Gloucester,” the Doctor replied tersely. He swung a corner, and entered the command room, in which flashed various screens, all showing the progress of their search. “And the trail of the vortex manipulator your prisoner somehow found led to Earth, in the year 2020. When presented with a direct lead, it seems reasonable to follow it.”

The Judoon lieutenant snarled, but didn’t reply. Clearly, he had no response to this, and after a moment the Doctor stepped past him, towards the monitors. All were hard at work, running through algorithms in their search for the fugitive. So far, they’d opened up a window of a few hours in which the fugitive could be found. Now, they were only working on the location.

“Is your platoon ready to cordon of a subsection of this planet?” he called over his shoulder. The Judoon lieutenant stalked up beside him, and huffed.

“Platoon ready to take any necessary action as requested by the operative,” he growled, with a sidelong glance that told the Doctor he really didn’t appreciate. That was all well and good; the Doctor didn’t need the Judoon to like him. He only needed them to listen.

And the knowledge that he could split every single one of their timelines open from the inside out was plenty of incentive.

“Good,” the Doctor replied. He watched the screens. They were still running through locations, but slowly, slowly, they were settling, like a lottery machine ticking through combinations. “As soon as we find the area, I want a fifty kilometer area cordoned off. Should be small enough to find them.”

“Judoon will find them quickly,” the lieutenant offered, only to cringe at the Doctor’s sharp look.

“No,” he said. “I will find them. You’re here for firepower, and nothing else.”

The Judoon lieutenant sucked in an angry breath, but said nothing more. Instead, he only turned back to the screens. The Doctor could feel the dislike radiating off him in waves. 

Typical of a Judoon. Always worried about their ridiculous hierarchy. 

“Besides,” he murmured, more to himself than the lieutenant, “I have plenty of tools of my own.”

The Judoon lieutenant said nothing. The numbers on the screen slowed. Then, they ground to a halt. A beep of confirmation followed, and then the numbers transformed into words, glowing brightly on the screen.

_Sheffield, England. Coordinates: 4383.685.0983_

The Doctor sucked in a breath, and held it for a moment, letting the anticipation flutter in his stomach. He liked this part, just before the chase. A roller coaster balancing on the top of the first fall.

But of course, the ride was nothing without the fall.

“Cordon off the city.” The Doctor turned, the coattails of his tunic fluttering. “Don’t interfere. I will find the fugitive, and bring them back to confirm their identity. Then, I will depart in my TARDIS.”

The Judoon lieutenant huffed behind him, clearly unhappy, but did not argue. A moment later, the Doctor heard the buzz of his comms, and smiled.

He didn’t look back.

—————

Yaz and the Doctor fell through dizzying, sucking blackness. Stars burst in her eyes, and her own lungs compressed inside of her, and just when she couldn’t take it anymore, when she had to breath or else she would die—

They landed.

More accurately, they collapsed into a heap on a hard, wooden floor, thinly covered by a scratchy rug, and when Yaz rolled over and opened her eyes, she realized she was looking at the darkened ceiling of her living room.

Beside her, the Doctor groaned.

“Yaz…?”

Her mum’s voice, steady even in shock, sounded from the kitchen. Yaz froze. 

Then, she jerked into a sitting position.

“Mum!”

Her mum stared at her, a mug of coffee balanced in one hand, a plate of toast in the other. For a brief moment, Yaz wondered just why her mother had to be up at this hour, and then remembered that it was early morning. The whole world was waking up, if not by alarm clocks, then certainly thanks to the message still blaring outside.

“Are you okay?” Yaz’s mum said, then shifted her gaze to the Doctor. Her eyes widened. “Is she okay?”

“Uh—” Yaz turned, and her heart skipped. The Doctor, though still clearly breathing, hadn’t made any moves to get up. Her eyes were closed, and her breath came in ragged rasps. Her face was white as bone, and her lips pressed tight, as if fighting nausea. “Doctor?”

For a moment, the Doctor didn’t say anything. Then, she slowly licked her lips, and sucked in a small breath. She didn’t open her eyes. “Yaz?”

“Yeah.” Yaz nodded, then recalled that she couldn’t see that. “Uh, it’s me.”

“Are we in Sheffield?”

“Uh—” Yaz glanced at her mum, who hastily set her mug and plate on the table, then came over to stand behind the couch. She mouthed ‘what’s happening?’ to Yaz, who only shook her head. “I mean, yeah.”

“Oh—” The Doctor let out a groan, then reached out a groping hand, and latched onto the leg of a coffee table. Slowly, achingly, she leveraged herself into a sitting position, then opened bleary eyes and looked around. “Where did we—oh. Hi, Yaz’s mum.”

“It’s Najia.”

“Mmhm,” the Doctor agreed, still looking around. Then, she froze. “Wait—Yaz’s mum?”

“It’s—”

“No!” With surprising vigor, she launched herself to her feet, wobbling only once, and spun to face Yaz’s mum. “You can’t—we can’t be here! The Judoon—”

“Wait, Doctor—” Yaz leapt to her feet as well, but the Doctor was already pushing past her, towards the door. Yaz lunged for her, and only just managed to grab one of her braces, dragging her to a halt. “Just wait! We can talk about this!”

“We can’t!” The Doctor spun around, with such surprising fury splashed across her face that Yaz nearly took a step back. Undeterred, the Doctor stabbed a finger at her. “You did this! If you hadn’t—I wouldn’t have—”

“You didn’t need to in the first place!” Yaz snapped back, to her own surprise. When was the last time she had snapped at the Doctor? Never, if she was being honest. “We told you not to leave, and you left anyway! Of course I was going to follow!”

The Doctor stared at her, chest heaving—with anger, or simple exertion, Yaz couldn’t tell. Her finger sagged, then dropped back to her side.

“I’m putting you in danger,” she said. Her gaze swept over Yaz’s mum, who returned it with confusion and not a hint of annoyance. “I’m putting all of you in danger. I need to go.”

Yaz opened her mouth to respond, but it was her mother who got there first.

“Don’t think you could make it two steps, love,” she said. Her eyes traveled up and down the Doctor disapprovingly. “Where are your shoes?”

“My—” The Doctor glanced down at her stocking feet, then huffed out a breath. “Where are my shoes?”

“We took them.” Yaz stepped towards her carefully, on the off chance she might bolt. “We stuck them in the wash, along with your coat. You’re sick, Doctor. We’re trying to help.”

“I’m not—” the Doctor began, shaking her head, but couldn’t quite pull it off. Her chin dropped slightly, and her eyes, when they roamed over Yaz, were glassy and ill-focused. She was paper-white, and seemed to be growing paler each second. “I told you, I’m just having a bit of—”

“Memory trouble.” Yaz stepped forward, arms out. A peace offering, maybe. Her mother still looked confused, but at least she was the kind of mum to deal now, ask questions later. Yaz had always loved that about her. “And we said we wanted to help you out. You could at least let us do that.”

The Doctor shook her head, wide and loose. “I could never,” she began, a hand creeping up to press against her forehead. She blinked hard, once then again. “Father—”

Yaz paused. “Are you talking about your—”

But she didn’t have time to finish the sentence. Even if she had, the Doctor wouldn’t have heard it. The Doctor gave one shake of her head, then two, then took a wobbling step forward, her eyelids fluttering.

“I told you I’d make you prou—” she began, slurring off the edges of the words. “I said I—”

“Doctor—” Yaz began, but the Doctor only dropped her chin, her hair falling over her face, and Yaz had just enough time to realize that she was about to pass out, before she toppled to the ground.

Yaz almost caught her. Luckily, her mum made it there first, snagging her with a grunt and pulling her into her shoulder.

“She’s light as a feather,” she murmured, as the Doctor snored quietly into her pajama shirt. “Bloody hell, Yaz, what’s going on?”

Yaz could only shake her head. “I really wish I knew, mum. I wish I knew.”

Yaz’s mum looked to her, then to the Doctor, her head lolling, and sighed. “Oh, alright. You can explain as best you can in a moment. First, let’s get her into your bed.”

——————

Ryan and Graham stared at the spot where Yaz and the Doctor had disappeared.

“Oh, for crying out loud—” Graham began. “You’d think she’d hang around for longer than a cup of tea!”

Ryan only nodded slightly, staring at the spot the Doctor had occupied.

“She’s sick, isn’t she?” he murmured. “Graham, she looked like she were about to die.”

Graham pursed his lips, and cast him a sidelong look. “I know. I just don’t know what to do. Or how to find her.”

“Me neither.” Ryan swallowed. His eyes still fixed on the spot. He looked worried, Graham thought, more worried than a twenty year old had any right to be. “But at least she’s got Yaz with her.”

“Yeah.” Graham allowed the slightest of smiles to twitch at his lips. The slightest. “Bloody hell, I just wonder where they’ve gone off to.”

“Actually, I believe you could help with that.”

A new voice, smooth and arrogant, sounded behind them. A voice, which, Graham was pretty sure, had never been in his apartment before. 

He didn’t sound entirely friendly, neither.

Slowly, his heart pounding quietly in his chest, Graham turned around.

A man, dark-skinned and astonishingly young, stood on the other side of the table, leaning slightly over the wood with his hands propped lightly on the surface. He smiled at them when they turned, his teeth sparkling, then straightened and moved around the table.

“Humans, I’m guessing.” The smile didn’t disappear, but his lip twisted slightly. “Lovely to meet you. Now—” 

His hands came together, fingers interlacing. “I need you to tell me everything you know about this fugitive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the kind kudos and comments! i would love to hear what you all think!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no edits we die like men under the weight of our own bad grammar
> 
> note: there is violence (to Graham specifically), so read with caution! Nothing gory though, I promise.

Ryan stared. So did Graham. Neither of them answered.

At their silence, the man—or was he a boy? Ryan couldn’t tell—dropped his smile. His lips flattened, and something in his gaze tightened.

Dangerous. The thought came to Ryan unbidden, then bowled him over like a hard knock to his chest. The man screamed danger in everything that he didn’t say, so much so that when Graham took a slight step back, Ryan found himself following.

Danger. Danger with a strange, familiar edge to it, and that more than anything drew sweat down the bead of his neck.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” the man said. His voice was smooth, almost reassuring. Familiar, Ryan thought, and the sense of it sent a thrill through him. _Familiar._

“I certainly didn’t mean to,” the man continued, his smile back in place, though it showed nothing but teeth. Teeth, and a resounding sense of impatience. “I’m just—oh, what’s that phrase in English? In the middle of something.” His gaze went between the two of them, and his smile sharpened. “And I think you two can help me.”

“Yeah, well you can think differently,” Graham retorted. Ryan’s gaze snapped to him— _he has to be kidding, we can’t stand up to this guy_ —then darted back to the man. He swallowed, and, riding on Graham’s initiative, took a step forward.

The Doctor was their friend, he reminded himself. Gone or not, sick or not, _infuriating or not_ —they would help her.

“Yeah,” he said, and strongly resisted the urge to flinch when the man’s gaze switched to him. Courage, where was his courage? “Sorry, man. We don’t even know who you are. Or why you’re here. So you can, uh, get out of our house.”

The man didn’t immediately answer, but regarded him for a long moment.

“You’re young,” he observed. “And brave. You don’t seem like the type to fear death.”

That was completely wrong. In fact, Ryan would consider himself scared of both dying, and whatever it was the man had in store for them. Still, he didn’t mention that. He only swallowed dryly, and forced himself to straighten. At his full height, he was just a tad taller than the man.

“You’re right,” he lied, “I’m not scared of you. So go look for what you’re looking for—uh, somewhere else.”

The man stared at him. Slowly, he raised an eyebrow, and made a noise in his throat that might have been a laugh. Then, without even bothering to ask, he turned towards the table, picked up the Doctor’s abandoned spoon, and held it up to the light. Completely ignoring the two of them.

Okay, Ryan thought. _That_ was infuriating. It reminded him vividly of the type of look the Doctor would shoot the lot of them when they didn’t know something ‘perfectly obvious’ in her eyes. Like how many heads Trifectorians had, or the number of moons orbiting Skaro (whatever Skaro was).

A look, followed by a perfectly innocent act of fiddling around the console, leaving them to stew in their own ignorance. Just like the man was doing right now.

“Hey man, I’m serious!” Ryan blustered, even though he really didn’t feel it. “Get out of here now. We’re not gonna let you go through our stuff.”

“Yeah, and you’re not getting through us neither, sunshine,” Graham added. “Listen, we don’t know who you are or what you’re looking for, but—”

“Oh, _please_ be quiet!” Without warning, the man flung the spoon down, leaving it to skitter across the table and right over the opposite edge. Graham and Ryan both jumped, just as the man turned to face them, his lip curled into a snarl.

“You’re lying, the two of you.” His eyes darted between the two of them, his nostrils flaring with a rage summoned as suddenly as a sun shower. When neither of them answered, stunned into silence, he let out a snort. “Oh, _please_ don’t play dumb. I can’t stand it. You think I can’t sense the time dilations here? The use of a vortex manipulator?”

His finger jabbed towards the space behind Ryan and Graham, where Yaz and the Doctor had been standing minutes prior. “Right there,” he growled. “Use of a vortex manipulator. You see, I’m chasing a dangerous fugitive, and I’m not kind to those who harbor criminals.” His finger dropped, and his gaze returned to Ryan and Graham.

“Now,” he finished, his voice frighteningly calm, “are you going to tell me where they went, or not?”

There was no easy answer to that, Ryan thought. Seeing as they were neither willing to give the Doctor away, nor had no clue where she had gone. Not to mention, he didn’t like the thinly veiled threats in the man’s tone.

_Harboring criminals_. Ryan glanced to Graham, and caught the message clear in his eyes. _Don’t give her away_.

“We don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ryan turned back to face the man, summoning as much bravado in his voice as he could. “We really don’t. So you’ll just have to go look somewhere else. Now.”

He tacked the last bit on hastily, then caught his breath and waited, his heart slamming against his ribcage. For a moment, the man only looked at him. Then, his lips twitched in amusement.

“You really aren’t afraid, are you?” the man asked. Before Ryan could summon a response, the man shrugged, then turned to Graham. “Alright. That’s fine by me. We’ll go with him.”

“What are you talki—” Ryan began. He didn’t get the chance to finish. The man sighed wearily, then raised a hand and snapped his fingers.

All of a sudden, something shifted—untraceable, inexplicable. Ryan couldn’t even describe the feeling. He couldn’t even be sure something had happened.

Then Graham made a wet, strangled noise, and keeled over.

“Wha—Graham!” Ryan rushed to him, caught him just before he slumped forward and managed to pull him upright. One look at his face, and something in Ryan’s own throat closed. Graham’s face was chalk-white, his eyes unfocused. Even as Ryan held him, he wavered, one second from tumbling to the floor.

Before them, the man sighed. “Quite a pity, that is.”

Ryan’s head shot up. “What did you do to him?” he snarled. 

The man’s eyes widened in faux innocence. “Me?” He pointed a finger at his chest, just to make sure. “You think I did that?”

His finger turned towards Graham, now slumped in Ryan’s arms. Ryan glanced desperately to him, and noticed with a skip of his heart that he was nearly unconscious. Unconscious, or dead. 

“Grandad—” Ryan’s hand found his shoulder and he shook him gently—as if that would help. The color in his face was fading by the second, as was the life in his eyes—a few more seconds, and he’d be gone to the world.

Or just…gone.

Another sigh, so utterly smug that it burrowed under Ryan’s skin and stayed there, burning. “You know, human timelines are easy to shift. So many possibilities. Like, for instance, just two shades off of the course time was running, there was a possibility your poor friend might have had an aneurysm.” 

When Ryan glanced up, he shrugged, nonchalant. “It happens with older humans. Quite often, actually. I mean, it wasn’t going to happen, but the possibility was there. I only had to…” he raised a hand, mimed a pushing motion— “…push.”

Ryan stared at him, his heart pounding in his chest. Cold panic was sinking through his veins, and in his hands, he could feel Graham growing limper.

“What do you want?” he asked hoarsely. “What do you need?”

The man grinned, all victory. Ryan burned with it. “Information, mainly. Your friend, the one I know you’ve been harboring. Where did she go? How far away is she?”

“I—I don’t know,” Ryan admitted, and, as the man’s smile dropped, knew immediately that Graham was going to die. 

Dying for the Doctor. And all because she’d had to _run_.

The man’s smile turned into a scowl, one that wouldn’t have been out of place on a teenager. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, and strode forward, pushing past Ryan and Graham. “First the bloody Judoon, now—”

“Wait!” Ryan spun around with the force of the man’s shove, Graham’s slumped form still hugged to his chest. “Please—”

The man stopped in his tracks, then turned to face him. “You know he’s going to die anyway, right?”

“But not now,” Ryan said, keenly aware that he was begging, but not even in a mind to care. “Not—not like this. Please.”

The man studied him for a long moment, then stepped closer, too close for comfort. His eyes ran up and down Ryan, close and incredibly scrutinizing, as if he were taking him apart piece by piece and parsing each one. There wasn’t, Ryan noticed with a slowly sinking chill, even a hint of indecision in his gaze. 

“Why not now?” he asked softly. “Why do you deserve him?”

“I—” Ryan didn’t have an answer for this. Not a single bloody one. He swallowed hard. “He’s—he’s just all I have. I mean, I don’t have parents and—he’s all I’ve got.”

It wasn’t going to work. He knew it wasn’t going to work. But something flashed in the man’s eyes, something horribly open, so open Ryan didn’t want to see it at all, and then he stepped back, a slight, uncertain crease in his brow.

“The fugitive,” he said, his voice so soft Ryan had to strain to hear, “did they leave anything? Anything at all?”

He couldn’t tell him. He shouldn’t tell him. But Graham was dying in his arms, and Ryan was alone and afraid and the Doctor—the Doctor could _deal_ with things. The Doctor was brave, and smart, more than he’d ever be. She would work things out on her end, he was sure of it.

“Yes.” It came out in a rush of air, utter, embarrassed defeat. “Yes, she did. There’s a coat in the laundry and—and boots—”

But the man was already turning on his heel, stalking off with his ridiculous robes fluttering behind him, and as Ryan stared, hope collapsing in his chest, he raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

Graham jerked awake in his arms, so suddenly and so violently that Ryan let him go without thinking.

“Wha—where?” He lurched upright, then spun around to face Ryan. “Son, no offense but—were you holding me?”

Ryan stared at him, his throat sticky with tears. Distantly, he could hear the man rifling through their laundry. It occurred to him that he had just done something very, very bad.

Yet he couldn’t find it within himself to care.

Graham was still staring at him, waiting on a response that wasn’t coming. “Ryan? Are you oka—”

He was cut off mid-word by an abrupt, tear-stained hug.


End file.
